Domestic Manners of the Americans, by Fanny Trollope

Chapter 33

At length we reached Niagara. It was the brightest day that June could give; and almost any day
would have seemed bright that brought me to the object, which for years, I had languished to look upon.

We did not hear the sound of the Falls till very near the hotel, which overhangs them; as you enter the door you see
behind the hall an open space surrounded by galleries, one above another, and in an instant you feel that from thence
the wonder is visible.

I trembled like a fool, and my girls clung to me, trembling too, I believe, but with faces beaming with delight. We
encountered a waiter who had a sympathy of some sort with us, for he would not let us run through the hall to the first
gallery, but ushered us up stairs, and another instant placed us where, at one glance, I saw all I had wished for,
hoped for, dreamed of.

It is not for me to attempt a description of Niagara; I feel I have no powers for it.

After one long, stedfast gaze, we quitted the gallery that we might approach still nearer, and in leaving the house
had the good fortune to meet an English gentleman, (The accomplished author of “Cyril Thornton.”) who had been
introduced to us at New York; he had preceded us by a few days, and knew exactly how and where to lead us. If any man
living can describe the scene we looked upon it is himself, and I trust he will do it. As for myself, I can only say,
that wonder, terror, and delight completely overwhelmed me. I wept with a strange mixture of pleasure and of pain, and
certainly was, for some time, too violently affected in the physique to be capable of much pleasure; but when
this emotion of the senses subsided, and I had recovered some degree of composure, my enjoyment was very great
indeed.

To say that I was not disappointed is but a weak expression to convey the surprise and astonishment which this long
dreamed of scene produced. It has to me something beyond its vastness; there is a shadowy mystery hangs about it which
neither the eye nor even the imagination can penetrate; but I dare not dwell on this, it is a dangerous subject, and
any attempt to describe the sensations produced must lead direct to nonsense.

Exactly at the Fall, it is the Fall and nothing else you have to look upon; there are not, as at Trenton, mighty
rocks and towering forests, there is only the waterfall; but it is the fall of an ocean, and were Pelion piled on Ossa
on either side of it, we could not look at them.

The noise is greatly less than I expected; one can hear with perfect distinctness everything said in an ordinary
tone, when quite close to the cataract. The cause of this, I imagine to be, that it does not fall immediately among
rocks, like the far noisier Potomac, but direct and unbroken, save by its own rebound. The colour of the water, before
this rebound hides it in foam and mist, is of the brightest and most delicate green; the violence of the impulse sends
it far over the precipice before it falls, and the effect of the ever varying light through its transparency is, I
think, the loveliest thing I ever looked upon.

We descended to the edge of the gulf which received the torrent, and thence looked at the horse-shoe fall in
profile; it seems like awful daring to stand close beside it, and raise one’s eyes to its immensity. I think the point
the most utterly inconceivable to those who have not seen it, is the centre of the horse-shoe. The force of the torrent
converges there, and as the heavy mass pours in, twisted, wreathed, and curled together, it gives an idea of
irresistible power, such as no other object ever conveyed to me.

The following anecdote, which I had from good authority, may give some notion of this mighty power.

After the last American war, three of our ships stationed on Lake Erie were declared unfit for service, and
condemned. Some of their officers obtained permission to send them over Niagara Falls. The first was torn to shivers by
the rapids, and went over in fragments; the second filled with water before she reached the fall; but the third, which
was in better condition, took the leap gallantly, and retained her form till it was hid in the cloud of mist below. A
reward of ten dollars was offered for the largest fragment of wood that should be found from either wreck, five for the
second, and so on. One morsel only was ever seen, and that about a foot in length, was mashed as by a vice, and its
edges notched like the teeth of a saw. What had become of the immense quantity of wood which had been precipitated?
What unknown whirlpool had engulphed it, so that, contrary to the very laws of nature, no vestige of the floating
material could find its way to the surface?

Beyond the horse-shoe is Goat Island, and beyond Goat Island the American fall, bold, straight, and chafed to snowy
whiteness by the rocks which meet it; but it does not approach, in sublimity or awful beauty, to the wondrous crescent
on the other shore. There, the form of the mighty cauldron, into which the deluge poors, the hundred silvery torrents
congregating round its verge, the smooth and solemn movement with which it rolls its massive volume over the rock, the
liquid emerald of its long unbroken waters, the fantastic wreaths which spring to meet it, and then, the shadowy mist
that veils the horrors of its crash below, constitute a scene almost too enormous in its features for man to look upon.
“Angels might tremble as they gazed;” and I should deem the nerves obtuse, rather than strong, which did not quail at
the first sight of this stupendous cataract.

Minute local particulars can be of no interest to those who have not felt their influence for pleasure or for pain.
I will not tell of giddy stairs which scale the very edge of the torrent, nor of beetling slabs of table rock, broken
and breaking, on which, shudder as you may, you must take your stand or lose your reputation as a tourist. All these
feats were performed again and again even on the first day of our arrival, and most earthly weary was I when the day
was done, though I would not lose the remembrance of it to purchase the addition of many soft and silken ones to my
existence.

By four o’clock the next morning I was again at the little shantee, close to the horse-shoe fall, which seems reared
in water rather than in air, and took an early shower-bath of spray. Much is concealed at this early hour by the heavy
vapour, but there was a charm in the very obscurity; and every moment, as the light increased, cloud after cloud rolled
off, till the vast wonder was again before me.

It is in the afternoon that the rainbow is visible from the British side; and it is a lovely feature in the mighty
landscape. The gay arch springs from fall to fall, a fairy bridge.

After breakfast we crossed to the American side, and explored Goat Island. The passage across the Niagara, directly
in face of the falls, is one of the most delightful little voyages imaginable; the boat crosses marvellously near them,
and within reach of a light shower of spray. Real safety and apparent danger have each their share in the pleasure
felt. The river is here two hundred feet deep. The passage up the rock brings you close upon the American cataract; it
is a vast sheet, and has all the sublimity that height and width, and uproar can give; but it has none of the magic of
its rival about it. Goat Island has, at all points, a fine view of the rapids; the furious velocity with which they
rush onward to the abyss is terrific; and the throwing a bridge across them was a work of noble daring.

Below the falls, the river runs between lofty rocks, crowned with unbroken forests; this scene forms a striking
contrast to the level shores above the cataract. It appears as if the level of the river had been broken up by some
volcanic force. The Niagara flows out of Lake Erie, a broad, deep river; but for several miles its course is tranquil,
and its shores perfectly level. By degrees its bed begins to sink, and the glassy smoothness is disturbed by a slight
ripple. The inverted trees, that before lay so softly still upon its bosom, become twisted and tortured till they lose
their form, and seem madly to mix in the tumult that destroys them. The current becomes more rapid at every step, till
rock after rock has chafed the stream to fury, making the green one white. This lasts for a mile, and then down sink
the rocks at once, one hundred and fifty feet, and the enormous flood falls after them. God said, let there be a
cataract, and it was so. When the river has reached its new level, the precipice on either side shows a terrific chasm
of solid rock; some beautiful plants are clinging to its sides, and oak, ash, and cedar, in many places, clothe their
terrors with rich foliage.

This violent transition from level shores to a deep ravine, seems to indicate some great convulsion as its cause,
and when I heard of a burning spring close by, I fancied the volcanic power still at work, and that the wonders of the
region might yet increase.

We passed four delightful days of excitement and fatigue; we drenched ourselves in spray; we cut our feet on the
rocks; we blistered our faces in the sun; we looked up the cataract, and down the cataract; we perched ourselves on
every pinnacle we could find; we dipped our fingers in the flood at a few yards’ distance from its thundering fall; in
short, we strove to fill as many niches of memory with Niagara as possible; and I think the images will be within the
power of recall for ever.

We met many groups of tourists in our walks, chiefly American, but they were, or we fancied they were, but little
observant of the wonders around them.

One day we were seated on a point of the cliff, near the ferry, which commands a view of both the Falls. This, by
the way, is considered as the finest general view of the scene. One of our party was employed in attempting to sketch,
what, however, I believe it is impossible for any pencil to convey an idea of to those who have not seen it. We had
borrowed two or three chairs from a neighbouring cottage, and amongst us had gathered a quantity of boughs which, with
the aid of shawls and parasols, we had contrived to weave into a shelter from the midday sun, so that altogether I have
no doubt we looked very cool and comfortable.

A large party who had crossed from the American side, wound up the steep ascent from the place where the boat had
left them; in doing so their backs were turned to the cataracts, and as they approached the summit, our party was the
principal object before them. They all stood perfectly still to look at us. This first examination was performed at the
distance of about a dozen yard from the spot we occupied, and lasted about five minutes, by which time they had
recovered breath, and acquired courage. They then advanced in a body, and one or two of them began to examine (wrong
side upwards) the work of the sketcher, in doing which they stood precisely between him and his object; but of this I
think it is very probable they were not aware. Some among them next began to question us as to how long we had been at
the Falls; whether there were much company; if we were not from the old country, and the like. In return we learnt that
they were just arrived; yet not one of them (there were eight) ever turned the head, even for a moment, to look at the
most stupendous spectacle that nature has to show.

The company at the hotel changed almost every day. Many parties arrived in the morning, walked to the falls;
returned to the hotel to dinner, and departed by the coach immediately after it. Many groups were indescribably
whimsical, both in appearance and manner. Now and then a first-rate dandy shot in among us, like a falling star.

On one occasion, when we were in the beautiful gallery, at the back of the hotel, which overlooks the horse-shoe
fall, we saw the booted leg of one of this graceful race protruded from the window which commands the view, while his
person was thrown back in his chair, and his head enveloped in a cloud of tobacco smoke.

I have repeatedly remarked, when it has happened to me to meet any ultra fine men among the wilder and more imposing
scenes of our own land, that they throw off, in a great degree, their airs, and their “townliness,” as some one
cleverly calls these simagrees, as if ashamed to “play their fantastic tricks” before the god of nature, when
so forcibly reminded of his presence; and more than once on these occasions I have been surprised to find how much
intellect lurked behind the inane mask of fashion. But in America the effect of fine scenery upon this class of persons
is different, for it is exactly when amongst it, that the most strenuous efforts at elegant nonchalance are
perceptible among the young exquisites of the western world. It is true that they have little leisure for the display
of grace in the daily routine of commercial activity in which their lives are passed, and this certainly offers a
satisfactory explanation of the fact above stated.

Fortunately for our enjoyment, the solemn character of the scene was but little broken in upon by these gentry.
Every one who comes to Forsythe’s Hotel (except Mrs. Bogle Corbet), walks to the shantee, writes their name in a book
which is kept there, and, for the most part, descends by the spiral staircase which leads from the little platform
before it, to the rocks below. Here they find another shantee, but a few yards from the entrance of that wondrous
cavern which is formed by the falling flood on one side, and by the mighty rock over which it pours, on the other. To
this frail shelter from the wild uproar, and the blinding spray, nearly all the touring gentlemen, and even many of the
pretty ladies, find their way. But here I often saw their noble daring fail, and have watched them dripping and
draggled turn again to the sheltering stairs, leaving us in full possession of the awful scene we so dearly loved to
gaze upon. How utterly futile must every attempt be to describe the spot! How vain every effort to convey an idea of
the sensations it produces! Why is it so exquisite a pleasure to stand for hours drenched in spray, stunned by the
ceaseless roar, trembling from the concussion that shakes the very rock you cling to, and breathing painfully in the
moist atmosphere that seems to have less of air than water in it? Yet pleasure it is, and I almost think the greatest I
ever enjoyed. We more than once approached the entrance to this appalling cavern, but I never fairly entered it, though
two or three of my party did. I lost my breath entirely; and the pain at my chest was so severe, that not all my
curiosity could enable me to endure it.

What was that cavern of the winds, of which we heard of old, compared to this? A mightier spirit than Aeolus reigns
here.

Nor was this spot of dread and danger the only one in which we found ourselves alone. The path taken by “the
company” to the shantee, which contained the “book of names” was always the same; this wound down the steep bank from
the gate of the hotel garden, and was rendered tolerably easy by its repeated doublings; but it was by no means the
best calculated to manage to advantage the pleasure of the stranger in his approach to the spot. All others, however,
seemed left for us alone.

During our stay we saw the commencement of another staircase, intended to rival in attraction that at present in
use; it is but a few yards from it, and can in no way, I think, contribute to the convenience of the descent. The
erection of the central shaft of this spiral stair was a most tremendous operation, and made me sick and giddy as I
watched it. After it had been made fast at the bottom, the carpenters swung themselves off the rocks, by the means of
ropes, to the beams which traversed it; and as they sat across them, in the midst of the spray and the uproar, I
thought I had never seen life periled so wantonly. But the work proceeded without accident, and was nearly finished
before we left the hotel.

It was a sort of pang to take what we knew must be our last look at Niagara; but “we had to do it,” as the Americans
say, and left it on the 10th June, for Buffalo.

The drive along the river, above the Falls, is as beautiful as a clear stream of a mile in width can make it; and
the road continues close to it till you reach the ferry at Black Rock.

We welcomed, almost with a shout, the British colours which we saw, for the first time, on Commodore Barrie’s pretty
sloop, the Bull Dog, which we passed as it was towing up the river to Lake Erie, the commodore being about to
make a tour of the lakes.

At Black Rock we crossed again into the United States, and a few miles of horrible jolting brought us to
Buffalo.

Of all the thousand and one towns I saw in America, I think Buffalo is the queerest looking; it is not quite so wild
as Lockport, but all the buildings have the appearance of having been run up in a hurry, though every thing has an air
of great pretension; there are porticos, columns, domes, and colonnades, but all in wood. Every body tells you there,
as in all their other new-born towns, and every body believes, that their improvement, and their progression, are more
rapid, more wonderful, than the earth ever before witnessed; while to me, the only wonder is, how so many thousands,
nay millions of persons, can be found, in the nineteenth century, who can be content so to live. Surely this country
may be said to spread rather than to rise.

The Eagle Hotel, an immense wooden fabric, has all the pretension of a splendid establishment, but its monstrous
corridors, low ceilings, and intricate chambers, gave me the feeling of a catacomb rather than a house. We arrived
after the table d’hote tea-drinking was over, and supped comfortably enough with a gentleman, who accompanied
us from the Falls: but the next morning we breakfasted in a long, low, narrow room, with a hundred persons, and any
thing less like comfort can hardly be imagined.

What can induce so many intellectual citizens to prefer these long, silent tables, scantily covered with morsels of
fried ham, salt fish and liver, to a comfortable loaf of bread with their wives and children at home? How greatly
should I prefer eating my daily meals with my family, in an Indian wig-wam, to boarding at a table d’hote in
these capacious hotels; the custom, however, seems universal through the country, at least we have met it, without a
shadow of variation as to its general features, from New Orleans to Buffalo.

Lake Erie has no beauty to my eyes; it is not the sea, and it is not the river, nor has it the beautiful scenery
generally found round smaller lakes. The only interest its unmeaning expanse gave me, arose from remembering that its
waters, there so tame and tranquil, were destined to leap the gulf of Niagara. A dreadful road, through forests only
beginning to be felled, brought us to Avon; it is a straggling, ugly little place, and not any of their “Romes,
Carthages, Ithacas, or Athens,” ever provoked me by their name so much. This Avon flows sweetly with nothing but
whiskey and tobacco juice.

The next day’s journey was much more interesting, for it showed us the lake of Canandaigua. It is about eighteen
miles long, but narrow enough to bring the opposite shore, clothed with rich foliage, near to the eye; the back-ground
is a ridge of mountains. Perhaps the state of the atmosphere lent an unusual charm to the scene; one of those sudden
thunderstorms, so rapid in approach, and so sombre in colouring, that they change the whole aspect of things in a
moment, rose over the mountains and passed across the lake while we looked upon it. Another feature in the scene gave a
living, but most sad interest to it. A glaring wooden hotel, as fine as paint and porticos can make it, overhangs the
lake; beside it stands a shed for cattle. To this shed, and close by the white man’s mushroom palace, two Indians had
crept to seek a shelter from the storm. The one was an aged man, whose venerable head in attitude and expression
indicated the profoundest melancholy: the other was a youth, and in his deep-set eye there was a quiet sadness more
touching still. There they stood, the native rightful lords of the fair land, looking out upon the lovely lake which
yet bore the name their fathers had given it, watching the threatening storm that brooded there; a more fearful one had
already burst over them.

Though I have mentioned the lake first, the little town of Canandaigua precedes it, in returning from the West. It
is as pretty a village as ever man contrived to build. Every house is surrounded by an ample garden, and at that
flowery season they were half buried in roses.

It is true these houses are of wood, but they are so neatly painted, in such perfect repair, and show so well within
their leafy setting, that it is impossible not to admire them.

Forty-six miles farther is Geneva, beautifully situated on Seneca Lake. This, too, is a lovely sheet of water, and I
think the town may rival its European namesake in beauty.

We slept at Auburn, celebrated for its prison, where the highly-approved system of American discipline originated.
In this part of the country there is no want of churches; every little village has its wooden temple, and many of them
too; that the Methodists and Presbyterians may not clash.

We passed through an Indian reserve, and the untouched forests again hung close upon the road. Repeated groups of
Indians passed us, and we remarked that they were much cleaner and better dressed than those we had met wandering far
from their homes. The blankets which they use so gracefully as mantles were as white as snow.

We took advantage of the loss of a horse’s shoe, to leave the coach, and approach a large party of them, consisting
of men, women, and children, who were regaling themselves with I know not what, but milk made a part of the repast.
They could not talk to us, but they received us with smiles, and seemed to understand when we asked if they had
mocassins to sell, for they shook their sable locks, and answered “no.” A beautiful grove of butternut trees was
pointed out to us, as the spot where the chiefs of the six nations used to hold their senate; our informer told me that
he had been present at several of their meetings, and though he knew but little of their language, the power of their
eloquence was evident from the great effect it produced among themselves.

Towards the end of this day, we encountered an adventure which revived our doubts whether the invading white men, in
chasing the poor Indians from their forests, have done much towards civilizing the land. For myself, I almost prefer
the indigenous manner to the exotic.

The coach stopped to take in “a lady” at Vernon; she entered, and completely filled the last vacant inch of our
vehicle; for “we were eight” before.

But no sooner was she seated, than her beau came forward with a most enormous wooden best-bonnet box. He
paused for a while to meditate the possibilities — raised it, as if to place it on our laps — sunk it, as if to put it
beneath our feet. Both alike appeared impossible; when, in true Yankee style he addressed one of our party with. If
you’ll just step out a minute, I guess I’ll find room for it.”

“Perhaps so. But how shall I find room for myself afterwards?”

This was uttered in European accents, and in an instant half a dozen whiskey drinkers stepped from before the
whiskey store, and took the part of the beau.

“That’s because you’ll be English travellers I expect, but we have travelled in better countries than Europe — we
have travelled in America — and the box will go, I calculate.”

We remonstrated on the evident injustice of the proceeding, and I ventured to say, that as we had none of us any
luggage in the carriage, because the space was so very small, I thought a chance passenger could have no right so
greatly to incommode us.

“Right! — there they go — that’s just their way — that will do in Europe, may be; it sounds just like English
tyranny, now don’t it? but it won’t do here.” And thereupon he began thrusting in the wooden box against our legs, with
all his strength.

“Law!” echoed another gentleman of Vernon, “this is a free country, we have no laws here, and we don’t want
no foreign power to tyrannize over us.”

295

I give the words exactly. It is, however, but fair to state, that the party had evidently been drinking more than an
usual portion of whiskey, but, perhaps, in whiskey, as in wine, truth may come to light. At any rate the people of the
Western Paradise follow the Gentiles in this, that they are a law unto themselves.

During the contest, the coachman sat upon the box without saying a word, but seemed greatly to enjoy the joke; the
question of the box, however, was finally decided in our favour by the nature of the human material, which cannot be
compressed beyond a certain degree.

For the great part of this day we had the good fortune to have a gentleman and his daughter for our
fellow-travellers, who were extremely intelligent and agreeable; but I nearly got myself into a scrape by venturing to
remark upon a phrase used by the gentleman, and which had met me at every corner from the time I first entered the
country. We had been talking of pictures, and I had endeavoured to adhere to the rule I had laid down for myself, of
saying very little, where I could say nothing agreeable. At length he named an American artist, with whose works I was
very familiar, and after having declared him equal to Lawrence (judging by his portrait of West, now at New York), he
added, “and what is more, madam, he is perfectly self-taught.”

I prudently took a few moments before I answered; for the equalling our immortal Lawrence to a most vile dauber
stuck in my throat; I could not say Amen; so for some time I said nothing; but, at last, I remarked on the frequency
with which I had heard this phrase of self-taught used, not as an apology, but as positive praise.

“Well, madam, can there be a higher praise?”

“Certainly not, if spoken of the individual merits of a person, without the means of instruction, but I do not
understand it when applied as praise to his works.”

“Not understand it, madam? Is it not attributing genius to the author, and what is teaching compared to that?”

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I do not wish to repeat all my own bons mots in praise of study, and on the disadvantages of profound
ignorance, but I would, willingly, if I could, give an idea of the mixed indignation and contempt expressed by our
companion at the idea that study was necessary to the formation of taste, and to the development of genius. At last,
however, he closed the discussion thus, — “There is no use in disputing a point that is already settled, madam; the
best judges declare that Mr. H— g’s portraits are equal to that of Lawrence.”

“Who is it who has passed this judgement, sir?”

“The men of taste of America, madam.”

I then asked him, if he thought it was going to rain?

The stages do not appear to have any regular stations at which to stop for breakfast, dinner, and supper. These
necessary interludes, therefore, being generally impromptu, were abominably bad. We were amused by the patient
manner in which our American fellow-travellers ate whatever was set before them, without uttering a word of complaint,
or making any effort to improve it, but no sooner reseated in the stage, than they began their complaints — “twas a
shame” — “twas a robbery” — “twas poisoning folks” — and the like. I, at last, asked the reason of this, and why they
did not remonstrate? “Because, madam, no American gentleman or lady that keeps an inn won’t bear to be found fault
with.”

We reached Utica very late and very weary; but the delights of a good hotel and perfect civility sent us in good
humour to bed, and we arose sufficiently refreshed to enjoy a day’s journey through some of the loveliest scenery in
the world.

Who is it that says America is not picturesque? I forget; but surely he never travelled from Utica to Albany. I
really cannot conceive that any country can furnish a drive of ninety-six miles more beautiful, or more varied in its
beauty. The road follows the Mohawk River, which flows through scenes changing from fields, waving with plenty, to
rocks and woods; gentle slopes, covered with cattle, are divided from each other by precipices 500 feet high. Around
the little falls there is a character of beauty as singular as it is striking. Here, as I observed of many other
American rivers, the stream appears to run in a much narrower channel than it once occupied, and the space which it
seems formerly to have filled, is now covered with bright green herbage, save that, at intervals, large masses of rock
rise abruptly from the level turf; these are crowned with all such trees as love the scanty diet which a rock affords.
Dwarf oak, cedars, and the mountain ash, are grouped in a hundred different ways among them; each clump you look upon
is lovelier than its neighbour; I never saw so sweetly wild a spot.

I was surprised to hear a fellow-traveller say, as we passed a point of peculiar beauty, “all this neighbourhood
belongs, or did belong, to Mr. Edward Ellice, an English Member of Parliament, but he has sold a deal of it, and now,
madam, you may see as it begins to improve;” and he pointed to a great wooden edifice, where, on the white paint, “Cash
for Rags,” in letters three feet high, might be seen.

I then remembered that it was near this spot that my Yankee friend had made his complaint against English
indifference to “water privilege.” He did not name Mr. Edward Ellice, but doubtless he was the “English, as never
thought of improvement.”

I have often confessed my conscious incapacity for description, but I must repeat it here to apologize for my
passing so dully through this matchless valley of the Mohawk. I would that some British artist, strong in youthful
daring, would take my word for it, and pass over, for a summer pilgrimage through the State of New York. In very
earnest, he would wisely, for I question if the world could furnish within the same space, and with equal facility of
access, so many subjects for his pencil. Mountains, forests, rocks, lakes, rivers, cataracts, all in perfection. But he
must be bold as a lion in colouring, or he will make nothing of it. There is a clearness of atmosphere, a strength of
chiaro oscuro, a massiveness in the foliage, and a brilliance of contrast, that must make a colourist of any
one who has an eye. He must have courage to dip his pencil in shadows black as night, and light that might blind an
eagle. As I presume my young artist to be an enthusiast, he must first go direct to Niagara, or even in the Mohawk
valley his pinioned wing may droop. If his fever run very high, he may slake his thirst at Trenton, and while there, he
will not dream of any thing beyond it. Should my advice be taken, I will ask the young adventurer on his return (when
he shall have made a prodigious quantity of money by my hint), to reward me by two sketches. One shall be the lake of
Canandaigua; the other the Indians’ Senate Grove of Butternuts.

During our journey, I forget on which day of it, a particular spot in the forest, at some distance from the road,
was pointed out to us as the scene of a true, but very romantic story. During the great and the terrible French
revolution (1792), a young nobleman escaped from the scene of horror, having with difficulty saved his head, and
without the possibility of saving any thing else. He arrived at New York nearly destitute; and after passing his life,
not only in splendour, but in the splendour of the court of France, he found himself jostled by the busy population of
the New World, without a dollar between him and starvation. In such a situation one might almost sigh for the
guillotine. The young noble strove to labour; but who would purchase the trembling efforts of his white hands, while
the sturdy strength of many a black Hercules was in the market? He abandoned the vain attempt to sustain himself by the
aid of his fellow-men, and determined to seek a refuge in the forest. A few shillings only remained to him; he
purchased an axe, and reached the Oneida territory. He felled a few of the slenderest trees, and made himself a shelter
that Robinson Crusoe would have laughed at, for it did not keep out the rain. Want of food, exposure to the weather,
and unwonted toil, produced the natural result; the unfortunate young man fell sick, and stretched upon the reeking
earth, stifled, rather than sheltered, by the withering boughs which hung over him; he lay parched with thirst, and
shivering in ague, with the one last earthly hope, that each heavy moment would prove the last.

Near to the spot which he had chosen for his miserable rest, but totally concealed from it by the thick forest, was
the last straggling wigwam of an Indian village. It is not known how many days the unhappy man had lain without food,
but he was quite insensible when a young squaw, whom chance had brought from this wigwam to his hut, entered, and found
him alive, but totally insensible. The heart of woman is, I believe, pretty much the same every where; the young girl
paused not to think whether he were white or red, but her fleet feet rested not till she had brought milk, rum, and
blankets, and when the sufferer recovered his senses, his head was supported on her lap, while, with the gentle
tenderness of a mother, she found means to make him swallow the restoratives she had brought.

No black eyes in the world, be they of France, Italy, or even of Spain, can speak more plainly of kindness, than the
large deep-set orbs of a squaw; this is a language that all nations can understand, and the poor Frenchman read most
clearly, in the anxious glance of his gentle nurse, that he should not die forsaken.

So far the story is romantic enough, and what follows is hardly less so. The squaw found means to introduce her
white friend to her tribe; he was adopted as their brother, speedily acquired their language, and assumed their dress
and manner of life. His gratitude to his preserver soon ripened into love, and if the chronicle spoke true, the French
noble and the American savage were more than passing happy as man and wife, and it was not till he saw himself the
father of many thriving children that the exile began to feel a wish of rising again from savage to civilized
existence.

My historian did not explain what his project was in visiting New York, but he did so in the habit of an Indian, and
learnt enough of the restored tranquillity of his country to give him hope that some of the broad lands he had left
there might be restored to him.

I have made my story already too long, and must not linger upon it farther than to say that his hopes were
fulfilled, and that, of a large and flourishing family, some are settled in France, and some remain in America, (one of
these, I understood, was a lawyer at New York), while the hero and the heroine of the tale continue to inhabit the
Oneida country, not in a wigwam, however, but in a good house, in a beautiful situation, with all the comforts of
civilized life around them.

Such was the narrative we listened to, from a stage coach companion; and it appears to me sufficiently interesting
to repeat, though I have no better authority to quote for its truth, than the assertion of this unknown traveller.